Scooters. Memories and other.

The Elder gave me a lift to work this morning. Well, I suppose that since she has to come to campus too, it can't really be called a lift. More like I strap in and hang on for dear life.

She has purchase a parking permit now though. Which means limited travel on public transport for a while. I am to go halves in the cost of the parking, and ride the train when she's not travelling my way from home. I'm hoping that won't be too often. Or she can pay for her parking herself. So there.

This morning, while burning rubber up the main drag, we noticed one of those commuter scooter things. It was a bit hard to miss; going hell for leather along the edge of the road. I'm sure his fingers were crossed. And a look of concentration on his face as he leaned over the handlebars trying desperately to get that last little gasp from the motor.

Heaven knows why these things are allowed to share the road. What good are they? They don't have enough power to travel in the mainstream traffic - they just aren't fast enough. Maybe they should ride the footpath with the pedestrians. Or those scooters for the mobility challenged. Now there would be a sight. A race. Between the scooters. Winner takes on the footsloggers. I'm talking, of course, about the scooters that you don't need a license for. The little ones. About 50cc or something.

I reckon they would travel almost as fast as a kid on one of the usual ones. The ones that were all the rage a couple years back. The silver ones with the slick wheels. The ones the parents made all the fuss about because of there being no proper brakes. You had to put your heel on the back wheel. Or something. But what's wrong with that? You can't truly have a childhood without the possibility of mangling yourself doing something fun. Like jumping on a bed when your older sister advised you not to.

We had a scooter. But it was nothing like the fancy ones. It was old and battered. And well loved. The plastic/rubbery handle grips were cracked. The paint was chipped. The frame was rusty. The wheels were white and solid rubber. Cracked too. And there was nothing we liked better than to get a good run up, jump on and fly down the yard, around the corner down the slope, and along the driveway. And see how far you could get without putting your foot to the ground. We wore a groove in the grass our dad wasn't necessarily impressed about. And I've lost count of the amount of times we stacked it.

Can you imagine doing that with any of the fancy pants things that pass for a scooter these days? And that statement includes the ones worthy only of a race against the pedestrians.